


Worth It

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Brotp, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Series, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The drunken shenanigans of Messieurs Athos and Porthos in the early days of their acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/gifts).



The floor, it turned out, wasn’t particularly easy on the face. And this particular floor, as it happened, wasn’t even carpeted. Then again, why would he have expected it to be? They were, after all, in a tavern, and not even a particularly well-reputed one, at that.

“You look nice from that angle,” Porthos’ booming voice resounded above him, and Athos suddenly realized that he had left himself entirely open to an attack from the rear. An aerial attack from the real, quite possibly. And what was he even doing on this floor in the first place? “Planning on getting up any time tonight, Monsieur?” his friend’s voice inquired, with feigned politeness.

Athos pushed the floorboards away with his nose and attempted to roll over. He opened his eyes one at a time, cautious and distrustful of what sight might greet him.

“Why am I on the floor?” he asked… or rather croaked, his voice sounding more like he had swallowed a frog than anything vaguely resembling human speech.

“Because I moved.”

Oh, well then. That explained it. Except _not in the slightest_.

“Take me home, Porthos,” Athos sighed, resigned to whatever his fate was to be that night, and closed his eyes. He had hoped for _forever_.

***

It wasn’t part of the plan for the night, of course, ending up arse-up on some filthy tavern floor. It had all started out rather innocently. They had just gotten off guard duty at the Louvre, and the night was still young. More importantly - so were they. And, at least according to Porthos, they were certainly not getting any younger.

“Speak for yourself,” Athos protested frequently. “I, personally, have begun to age backwards since the day I met you, to keep up with your own mental acuity.” 

“Oh, aye. And I, in turn, have begun to grow downwards, to be closer to you,” Porthos would retort, which would indelibly land him in fisticuffs with Athos, and more often than not, flat on his arse for Athos was a lot stronger than he might have appeared at a casual glance.

“Does it make you feel like more of a man, to sit on top of me?” Porthos would rib.

“Oh, trust me, I feel quite well like man enough,” Athos would laugh, pressing a knee into a particularly sensitive part of Porthos’ back. 

Afterwards, the two of them would go on about their business, which, on most of occasions was the business of drinking and gambling. When it wasn’t wenching, which, for Athos, it never was. Porthos, however, had his rent to pay.

“Listen, young princeling,” Porthos would tease, “Not all of us have our coffers filled with mysterious gold.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about my gold, Porthos. I am on exactly the same compensation as you.”

“Then why is it that my money is gone so quickly?”

“Perhaps because you eat enough for six?”

“Well you drink enough for ten!”

“Fair enough.”

And it was. So, when Porthos wasn’t out chasing a Duchess or at least a Countess, Athos was out at the gambling tables with him (mostly losing, but with a surprising amount of grace, which Porthos couldn’t stomach).

“I wish you were more emotionally invested in our _livelihood_.”

“Sorry, Porthos. The wheel of Fortuna has once again turned it’s lovely face away from us.”

“Well, I don’t much like staring at its arse,” Porthos grumbled, tossing the dice carelessly onto the table.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Athos looked at the dice and back at his companion. “Monsieur will be eating enough for seven this week, I declare.” He winked at his friend and moved away from the table. “Porthos, I’m out. I suggest you take your winnings and do the same.”

“Athos, you are a sage without equal, and on this occasion I will follow half of your advice. I _shall_ take the money, but not leave the game. In the meantime, innkeeper! More wine for my friend! The best the house has to offer!”

“You truly are my benefactor,” Athos mused and batted his long eyelashes at his friend, causing the bigger man to squint at him and chew his mustache militantly. Porthos didn’t particularly enjoy it when he couldn’t be sure whether Athos was mocking him.

Alas, more wine eventually turned into even _more_ wine, until even Athos found his head beginning to spin. It probably would’ve helped had the innkeeper brought out some snacks. It was impossible to find good help those days. If Grimaud had been around, Athos probably would’ve beaten him, just for allowing him his own indulgence, and perhaps in effigy of their thoughtless host. Porthos, on the other hand, seemed truly inspired by the Goddess of Victory. If Athos squinted, he could make out a tiny Nike perched upon his friend’s shoulder. Perhaps he had had enough to drink.

“You know what they say about those who are lucky in games,” Athos muttered through numbed lips that barely obeyed him. Porthos glanced at his friend and frowned in anticipation. “Unlucky in the sack,” Athos finished.

“I’ll beg to differ,” Porthos snorted. “Besides, if it’s lack of luck in the sack you wish to discuss, you need to look no further than your own cock.”

Athos supposed it was around that time that he had attempted to punch Porthos in the face. But Porthos had moved away.

***

“It’s a good thing you didn’t break your nose,” Porthos jested, while tucking his friend into the bed at rue Férou. “I’d hate to have to explain this to the Captain.”

“I should’ve broken yours. You could’ve been rich, but you pissed it all away on getting me _this_ drunk, you imbecile.” Athos wrinkled his nose in frustration. “This is quite undignified.”

“I wanted to see how much you could drink before it reduced you to a mere mortal from the demigod you normally are.” Porthos smiled and gave his friend a companionable punch in the arm.

“I suppose, you’ll have to go find yourself a Duchess after all, if you want to eat.”

“It was worth it,” Porthos pronounced with a most solemn expression on his face as he got up to leave.

Athos closed his eyes and welcomed sleep to descend upon him. He was going to have to sell something else from that cursed casket on his mantlepiece to pay for both their meals for the next month, but Porthos had been right. It was worth it.


End file.
